Home
by cactusnell
Summary: Returning from an extended visit with her brother, Molly Hooper must decide where, exactly, her home is. Sherlolly.


Molly Hooper was sitting upright in her seat on a Malaysia Air flight out of Sydney, Australia on route back to her home in London, England. This trip, to a large extent, was to decide just that question. Where was her home, truly? And where should it be?

The only close family Molly had left in this world was her younger brother, Bill, and he had lived in the land down under for these past ten years. Molly and he had been so close growing up that sometimes her heart ached with his absence. But Bill had found his life, and his wife, on the other side of the world. He now had two small children, both girls, one named Molly after her aunt, and had never given up on the idea of persuading the elder Molly to join them under the Southern Cross. And Molly herself had to admit the idea was tempting. That was one of the reasons she had taken a three month leave of absence from her position as a pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital to explore the possibility, distant though it had always been in her mind. She missed her brother. She missed being part of a family, and she adored her nieces. And every time she looked at Bill and his wife, Kath, together, she envied their relationship. They were so good together, the perfect complements to each other, seeming to live in a symbiosis so well balanced as to defy nature. They completed each other's sentences and lives with equal ease, and, while doing so, had produced two adorable kids, secure in the affection of their parents. Molly had always wanted that kind of life for herself, and had spent the past three months contemplating what she was willing to sacrifice to achieve it.

Her friends and acquaintances had been more than a little surprised when Molly had announced her plans to pay an extended visit to her brother. With the possible exception of Mycroft Holmes. Molly and he had grown close since the whole "death" of his brother, the great detective, Sherlock Holmes. Molly had helped the brothers fake the death, and kept the secret for just over two years. Sherlock had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared from her life during this period, but Mycroft had been kind enough to keep her informed of his general whereabouts and condition. He never passed along any messages from the detective, merely an account of his doings. The kindly pathologist, sensing that the government official was as concerned about his little brother as she was, often shared her meals with the man, and conversation, and they had, quite quickly, in fact, formed a lasting friendship. Perhaps it was based on the fact that opposites attract, although they were not, in fact, that opposite. Mycroft was a man of intellect, not usually known for his kindness. Molly was a woman of such gentle temperament and kindness, that people seldom recognized the fierce intelligence within. But each saw the somewhat hidden attributes of the other, and their friendship grew accordingly. And when Molly Hooper made her announcement, Mycroft instinctively knew, on some level, that her departure had much to do with her feelings for his brother, and her need to resolve those feelings once and for all. And now Dr. Hooper was flying back to London, decision made.

During her absence, Molly had, of course, been in touch with those she had left behind. Mrs. Hudson had kindly offered to care for her cat, Toby, during her absence, although Molly had suspected that Sherlock had put her up to it. Mary and John had skyped her at least once a week, as she was hungry for details about their infant daughter, Claire. And there were the calls to keep her up to date on hospital gossip. Even Greg Lestrade had been in touch occasionally. She probably spoke to Mycroft Holmes, and Anthea, most often. Anthea, it turned out, had a rather bawdy sense of humor and an appetite for red wine to match Molly's own, and the two had grown relatively close, sometime to Mycroft's dismay. Molly may have been the only one, outside of his parents, to known of their relationship. In any case, if Sherlock had known, he had never let on. Perhaps, he may have reasoned, if his brother could have a relationship, it was within the realm of possibility that he, himself, could, and such a thing was not to be contemplated! But, during her absence, she had never actually spoken to the man she loved more than anything in this world, and while the withdrawal symptoms had been painful, she had survived. Again.

The one thing which may have shortened her stay abroad had happened during her second month away. She had received a call from Mycroft saying that his father, Siger Holmes, had suffered a minor stroke. Her heart had immediately gone out to her friend, and his brother, but he had assured her that it was, indeed, a minor problem, that the man was expected to make a full recovery, and that her presence, comforting though it may have been, was not required.

"Molly, please, stay where you are. I know you have things to think about. Do what's best for you, for a change. Everything will be fine here, and by the time you return my father will be back to his own self, happy to see you, and to flirt with you, as usual. Anthea has been with my mother quite a bit, and I'm sure she will keep you informed."

"If you think it's best, Mycroft. But how is Sherlock handling it?"

Mycroft chuckled a bit, although it sounded a little sad. "Just as you would expect. Silently. And stoically. He actually adores our father. If I am a mummy's boy, which I am afraid I am, Sherlock is definitely our father's son. But I see no signs of a relapse of his addictions, Molly. He's handling it rather well."

As soon as the call ended, Molly dialed Sherlock's number, only to be faced with constant ringing, and a shuffle off to voice mail. She should have known, as the detective had always preferred texting. So she did just that.

JUST HEARD ABOUT YOUR FATHER. ARE YOU ALRIGHT? - MOLLY

IT IS MY FATHER WHO IS ILL, NOT I. I AM FINE - SH

IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO? - MOLLY

In her heart, Molly knew that she was hoping the next text would involve a request for her to return home. To him. But she knew better.

NOTHING, BUT THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN - SH

PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU THINK OF ANYTHING - MOLLY

But there were no further texts. Or calls. At least not from Sherlock Holmes.

And now, Molly Hooper was on the last leg of her journey back to London, chasing the sun westward from Kuala Lumpur across Europe. It had been high Summer when she left Sydney, late in December. She had spent Christmas with her brother for the first time in a decade, but had been determined to return to London for the New Year. And now she was looking down on

the gray clouds which seemed to so frequently envelope the city. She could imagine the chill in the air, and in her bones, and perhaps a soft rain falling on her hair. And she knew, no matter how out of place she looked with her sun-lightened hair and her smooth tan, she was, indeed, home. This was where she belonged. Yes, she envied her brother's life, and his family, but she had all she needed right right here. Perhaps not all she wanted, and she probably never would have that. But what she needed in her life were friends she cared about, a city she adored, a job which challenged her, and Sherlock Holmes, in whatever capacity he chose. It was with these thoughts in mind that Molly deplaned, and went in search of the car Mycroft had assured her he would send for her.

The small woman, pulling her bag behind her, scanned the crowd at the terminal, looking perhaps for a driver holding up a sign reading "Hooper'. She did not expect to see a tall man in a flowing coat and dark curls. She especially did not expect to see him holding a bouquet of perhaps two dozen red roses. She froze in her tracks for a moment, to the annoyance of those passengers trying to navigate around her, as the tall figure searched the crowd for a familiar face. When his eyes finally found hers, a smile quickly appeared, to be replaced almost immediately by a mask of rather genial indifference. But he speedily made his way toward her, bending to kiss her cheek, as was his usual custom, and thrusting the roses into her arms.

"You should probably take these, while I take your bag. I suppose you have more luggage at the baggage claim?"

"Well, I was gone for three months, Sherlock. You could hardly expect me to live out of a carry-on for all that time, could you?", she laughed in response.

"I suppose there is no hope that your luggage has been lost, necessitating replacing all those hideous jumpers, Molly?"

"You're going to love my new ones, Sherlock. I bought one with a fluffy koala. And one with a kangaroo!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, saying, with forced politeness, "I'm sure it will look lovely on you, Molly."

"The one with the kangaroo is for you, Sherlock," she replied with a straight face, while the detective managed a small chuckle.

The pair quickly made their way to baggage claim and then headed out to where one of Mycroft's fleet of sleek black cars awaited them, the driver depositing the bags in the boot, and the passengers in the rear. Molly sat quietly with the roses on her lap, gazing out the window as the outer environs of the capital city whizzed past the window. She was lost in her thoughts when Sherlock finally spoke.

"So, are you home for good, then, Molly?"

"Of course I am! I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. I realize that you left, at least in part, to reassess your life. I know you've had offers from various institutions, Molly. And that you miss your brother, and that he wants you to move down there…"

"How would you know all that, Sherlock? Did Mycroft…"

But the detective quickly interrupted her with the fervent plea, "Molly, please don't leave me again. Ever!"

"Sherlock, I…"

The man took a deep breath before continuing. "And I suppose that I should tell you that I intend to make it very difficult, indeed, for you to leave me again, Molly. I'll give you everything you want, that is, if you still want it. I suppose it would be rather ironic if I were to realize just how much I love you after you've gotten completely over me." He paused then to stifle a bitter laugh. "I want to give you my name. And babies. Little curly haired babies with brown eyes. Wouldn't you like that? We could move to the country and raise babies and bees…"

"Sherlock, where is this coming from? After all this time?"

Sherlock looked her in the eye, and spoke seriously, in a low voice. "My mother, Molly. When my father had his stroke, I saw the panic in her eyes. She tried to hide it, but it was always there. Panic at the thought that she might lose him, no matter how optimistic a picture the doctors had painted. And I realized how often I had seen that look before. Every morning. Every morning since you'd left, when I looked in the mirror to shave."

"But you never said anything."

"I didn't want to exercise any undue influence, Molly. I wanted you to make your decision based on your needs, not mine. But now that you are back, I think it fair to warn you that my selflessness has come to an abrupt end. As I have said, I intend to make it very difficult for you to ever leave me again…"

And Molly Hooper, kind soul that she was, decided to put the man out of his misery as quickly as possible. "If you haven't guessed by now, you git, I have already found it to be simply impossible to leave you! And it's not for lack of trying, either!"

Sherlock looked as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, his heart, his soul. He smiled, and Molly noted that the sun now seemed a bit brighter in London, even on this bleak December day, and when he finally took her in his arms and kissed her, she knew that they were both home. At last.


End file.
